I have to thank you all for the many questions
and comments you send me, it really does make it all worthwhile. Even when someone, a member of The Illuminati
I may add, calls me names but then deletes the post, it shows at least that my
words do have some sort of effect. I
shall not mention who it was, as I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone, but he runs
a bombing range in Saudi Arabia and was renowned for ironing his underpants
while in the air force. I’ve known the
fellow for almost forty years and I think it would be impossible for either of
us to insult the other. The most common
question you ask is how I can remember so much, well; it’s simple, certain
incidents stick in the mind.
Who could ever forget an angry Welsh farmer,
with shotgun, shouting at you? Even more
so who could forget waking up the following morning? I suppose if I tell you about it you would
understand. I was in a room with two
sets of bunk beds. Both my boys were
with me so it was a nice little family room. It was very small and very cold. Each of my boys had a sleeping bag and were
also covered with a blanket. I had been
promised the loan of a sleeping bag, which didn't turn up, and once again I shall not mention the person’s
name as I would not want to embarrass her, but it started with Linda and ended
in Browne. Another one, I wonder if they
are related?
Having been trained in all flavours of survival,
I knew that I was relatively comfortable, as in; I was inside a building,
protected from the elements. I had a bed
and I had four blankets to keep me warm.
I do remember waking the following morning and I was holding all four
blankets by my throat and I was shivering.
Now, don’t start getting pedantic, I wasn’t holding the blankets with my
throat, I was holding them in my hands which were up by my throat. The only problem was that each of the
blankets had slipped off and were hanging off the bed, either to the left or
right, meaning that I was lying there in my, un-ironed, underpants freezing to
death. My survival training took over which
involved a lot of swearing and threats of violence to a person.
Once thawed and feeling relatively human again
I dressed and was pleased to see that the remainder of the squadron had
arrived. We looked more like a bunch of
travelling gypsies as some of the staff had brought their caravans and tents
were being erected. Andy’s wife Dot, a
lovely lady, took over and organised everything. She had been here many times before and knew
how things should be done. She based
herself in the kitchen and began to organise the evening meal, which for a
group of about fifty was no mean feat. We,
on the other hand, were to do exciting adventurous things. More police men turned up, who were qualified
canoe type people, and the squadron spent the day splashing about on a local
lake. Once again there were a lot of
rolled up trouser legs and funny handshakes involved if you get my drift.
It was great fun and my two boys certainly
enjoyed it. James was able to get stuck
in with the canoeing but still would never forgive me for tipping him upside
down in the swimming pool. That evening
we all returned to a fantastic hot meal, cooked by Dot who insisted that we
thank her friend who had helped her prepare the meal. Dot had been on her own all day long so I
found this a little strange. Dot then
explained that the resident ghost had helped her. She believed that the place was indeed
haunted and that the ghost was harmless, he just sort of hung around and kept
her company. Now some of you may believe
in ghosts and some of you may not. Some
of you may think that suggestion comes in to play, but I can assure you that I
did look up and across the table to see someone, or something, standing behind
one of the staff members.
I didn’t recognise him, so when I glanced back to
check, he was gone. Dot noticed the look
on my face and asked if I had just seen him.
I said that I had and she appeared to be happy now that another person
had joined her ghost watch group. Andy
was happy because an article I had written for the air cadet newspaper, a
monthly publication, had been published.
I had been asked to oversee the Duke Of Edinburgh’s award scheme for the
cadets on the squadron and had written an article about my experience and
thoughts on the subject. The piece was
called ‘Doing the Duke’ and hopefully was funny and informative. It was nice getting something published too
as it gave the old writing confidence a bit of a boost.
The following day was a walking day and Andy
asked me if I would drop him and a small group off and then drive the coach back
to base camp. I agreed as I was now an
expert coach driver, well; as long as I was on a motorway with at least three
lanes and a hard shoulder I was an expert driver. I now discovered that you can just about fit
a large fifty two seater coach down a narrow Welsh lane. And even then kamikaze sheep would make sure
that you stayed alert whilst driving along.
It did give me a little more experience but such was the experience that
I decided I should stay away from driving the coach especially along narrow Welsh
lanes. The next day we were to do the
old cross over route on the Glyders.
We would split into two groups, one group, led
by Andy, would be dropped at Capel Curig from where they would walk up and across
the Glyder range, coming down through the Devils Kitchen to Ogwen cottage. The other group, led by me, would drive the
coach to, and park it at, Ogwen Cottage, then lead my group up through the
Devils Kitchen on to the Glyders and descend down into Capel Curig where Andy,
now driving the coach, would pick us up. All
very simple and straight forward except when I arrived at Ogwen Cottage I discovered
that not only was there nowhere to park, but that to access the only possible
place I had spotted, where I could park the coach, I would have to turn the
bloody thing around.
The A5 road in North Welsh Wales is quite a
narrow road at the best of times and during the day, especially during holidays
and at weekends, is quite busy. So you
can imagine the commotion and tail backs as I, directed by my exuberant cadets,
decided to turn the coach around on the A5.
Don’t think three point turn; this was a big bus and a narrow road,
think thirty point turn. I don’t think
we did very well, as most of the drivers who had been involved in the tail backs,
seemed to award me two points out of a possible ten as they passed. And I think most of them were Italians too as
they blasted their car horns and shook two fingers at me reminding me of the
eight other points I could have achieved.
I most certainly had a different attitude as I
took my group onto the hill. In the old
days our hands would have been jammed in our pockets, heads down and we would
power our way up into the mountains. Now
I found myself responsible for twenty children and Julie Andrews I most certainly
was not. They were unable to stick to
the paths and exploded out and into the rocks and crevasses around us. Not only did I find myself trying to keep an
eye on the children but I found myself constantly checking the weather watching
the clouds pass over us. It wasn’t as
enjoyable as I had hoped, as I found myself far too busy keeping an eye on
things, to actually enjoy the day.
The Devils Kitchen is quite an imposing place,
bare rock and high leaning crags and cliffs.
One cadet I shall never forget, Mike Abella, had raced ahead of the
group, despite me uttering my mantra of ‘the speed of the team is that of the slowest
man.’ Abella was one of those kids who were
so full of life and energy he was fit to burst.
As I got to the base of the Devils Kitchen, which is a huge gouge in the
cliff face, I looked up to see Abella sitting on the edge of the cliff, two
hundred feet above me, swinging his legs and singing his heart out. It was wonderful to see such enjoyment but terrifying
to think that if he slipped I might have to revert to my old job, of putting bits
of bodies into plastic bags.
Thankfully by the time I had dragged myself to
the top of the cliff all the cadets and my two boys were still alive. We bumbled off and met Andy and his group up
by the Cantilever, on top of the Glyders, and I gave him the coach keys. As we began our descent I found myself
wishing, once again, that I had kept my mouth shut, for I had explained to the Cadets
what the quickest way was to get off a mountain. Of course my method was mainly to be used in
winter and on snow, but the cadets decided that grass was just as good as snow
and I could do nothing more than watch twenty cadets bringing out their
survival bags and sliding off the mountain, proving once again that the coefficient
of friction between grass and a plastic bag is indeed zero. But I suppose what made the whole thing worthwhile,
the angry armed farmers, shivering in my shreddies, kamikaze sheep and even the
ghost in the dining room, was meeting my two boy’s running back up the mountain,
smiles plastered from ear to ear, to have another go. Who needs theme parks; give me a mountain and
a plastic bag any day.
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